The Bicycle
by Peradan
Summary: Jack Benedict again crosses paths with Narcissa Fitzwilliam. Literally. A sequel to "Perfect."


Once upon a time, in the small town of Concord, Oregon, there lived a young man called Jack. He was a student at the local university, rather attractive, reasonably intelligent, and very poor. His brain ran on caffeine and his car on a steady stream of miracles.

In the end, of course, even God couldn't save the battered old Volkswagen, and Jack switched over to his mother's bicycle. He didn't even paint over her favourite shade of Pepto-Bismol pink.

For at least three weeks after the most humiliating mistake of his life, Jack spent hours on the Pepto Bike, hurtling over the steep slopes and past the sharp curves of Llewellyn Road, ignoring everything but his own racing thoughts.

It wasn't, he decided, really about _her_ — he might have been wrong in this specific instance, but she was still cold and haughty and completely unlikable. If she hadn't been so thoroughly unpleasant, then maybe he wouldn't have —

No. She hadn't always been unpleasant — at least, not unambiguously so — and he'd never once considered her as _real_. She wasn't a human being, after all, just the embodiment of everything he hated, all the effortless wealth and privilege and brains and beauty, rolled into a single detestable package. She could have been as sweet as Janine and he'd have found a way to see it as undeniable proof of her arrogance.

It didn't make her any better, but he finally admitted to himself that he didn't _know_ her, and never had. He'd never acknowledged that she even existed beyond what she was to him. And the others had been right, Janine and Bing and Carla and even that harridan Kate Berkeley.

Carla. He'd been wrong about her, too. Other people's sisters lied to them, and manipulated their way into jobs at places like Colin's. _(Colin's! It was next thing to an escort service.)_ Not his, though. That sort of thing only happened to other people who didn't know what was happening in their own families.

An enormous semi lumbered up the hill, and just to be safe, Jack switched lanes, keeping his eye on the truck as he rounded the curve.

He caught sight of the other bicyclist just before they collided; she screamed, and he gave a manly shout, desperately veering away. It wasn't far enough; he only rammed into a nearby wall of wild blackberries, but she fell beneath her bike, a pair of oblong-shaped spectacles flying onto the road.

"Oh, God," said Jack, unclasping his helmet and running over. "I'm so sorry — are you hurt? I'm an idiot, I shouldn't have — _Narcy?_"

A familiar pair of smoky blue eyes, glazed and incredulous but unquestionably _hers_, met his own. "Good morning, Eliezer."

He almost corrected her; then he caught sight of her leg, twisted beneath the front tire in a position no human could naturally achieve. "Oh Lord," he said, lifting the bike away. "Narcissa, I — I didn't realise anyone was there. I'm so sorry. Can you move it?"

She squinted, then turned it slightly. "Yes," she said, "but I'd rather not."

He took this to be a scream of agony in Narcissa-speak. "Sorry," he said again. "Um, maybe there's someone you could call? I have a cell — "

"Thanks," said Narcissa, and actually winced as she unbent her leg. "Just a moment — " Her fingers rapidly pressed over numbers. "Uncle Hal? Yes, it's . . . yes. Could you pick me up? I had a, um, mishap on my bike. We're just outside of the university, on — Eliezer, what street is it?"

Jack started. "What? Oh — it's Llewellyn, just past the intersection with Twelfth." The sign was mere feet away; plainly, her glasses were more than a fashion accessory.

He should probably just stop counting his mistakes.

"Will you need a ride?" she asked. "I think something punctured your tire."

"Oh, I'll just walk — "

She gave him an exasperated look. "Yes, Uncle Hal, there are two of us. Oh, that'd be nice. Thanks!"

_Uncle Hal_, of course, couldn't drive an ordinary car. In fact, he didn't drive at all. After a few minutes of waiting, Jack saw a narrow black limousine round the corner. It parked on the shoulder of the road — Jack sprang up — and a tall, fortyish man emerged from the back, his straight nose and rich dark hair exactly like Narcissa's.

"Hello there," he said amiably, pulling off his sunglasses. "I hope my niece didn't hurt you too badly. Really, Cissy, how many times have I said that if you insist on rushing helter-skelter ahead — "

Jack stared at the face he'd seen plastered across the television more times than he could count, ever since the Democratic primaries had begun. "Uh," he said, his voice squeaking, then managed to pull himself together. "S-Senator, it's, um, you shouldn't blame, uh, Cissy. I wasn't looking where I was going and ran her over."

Unbelievably, Narcissa wrinkled her nose at him and grinned. "Eliezer's right," she announced. "There is no possible way in which _this_ is my fault." She gave him a long, serious look, and for one of the first times in their acquaintance, he understood her perfectly.

"Eliezer?" repeated Senator Fitzwilliam, examining Narcissa's ankle. "Eliezer Benedict, is it?"

Jack nodded, and the other man grinned as he picked his niece up.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you. Ci — Narcissa has told me all about you."

Jack stared. Narcissa covered her eyes.

"Now, keep that ankle raised. Johnson, put those bicycles in the back. Are you coming, young man?"

"Yes, sir," said Jack.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the university. Hints of their earlier laughter still remained on Narcissa's face, curving her lips into an easy, happy smile. Two months ago, he would never have imagined that she could look like that — it was almost, he thought, as if she had some engaging, light-hearted twin, with none of the real Narcissa Fitzwilliam's arrogance, and even more beauty.

Surely all of this wasn't because of _him?_

The senator deposited his niece on a couch, then after she whispered something to him, said, "Mr Benedict, we'd love to have you for dinner, if it's convenient for you."

Jack glanced at Narcissa. She was chewing on her thumbnail. It might just be guilt — making amends for what she'd said and done before —

Her ankle had swollen to the size of a small beach ball, and he remembered that she wasn't the only one who had amends to make. Besides, he could see if her personality transplant had lasted more than a day, and finally be able to talk to someone with a brain.

"Thanks," he said, and tore his eyes away from hers. "I'd love to."


End file.
